


A Space Between

by Delwin



Series: ...and history books forgot about us (canonical AU's) [1]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 21:27:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6130615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delwin/pseuds/Delwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes we become who we need to be... (Tom Paris)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Space Between

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CrlkSeasons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrlkSeasons/gifts).



> For Crlk, with thanks for sending me to a part of the Galaxy where I never would have thought to venture and to which I am eager to return. –Delwin

_Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom_. – Viktor Frankl  
  


The closed box rests in a stray streak of late afternoon light that slants across the otherwise shadowed desk.  

Save for that box and one other feature, the desk – and, in fact, the whole room – remain exactly as Tom had left them when he walked out of his childhood home a quarter century before.  To the left of the box sits the same outdated personal console where a young Lieutenant Tom Paris had composed the confession that ended his first Starfleet career.  Above the desk, the shelves are lined with the stories which filled his childhood – _Captains Courageous_ , _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea_ , _The Mysterious Island_ – as well as the somewhat less classic reading of his later years.  The walls of the room pay tribute to those same later tastes, showcasing framed and preserved antique posters for the twentieth century masterpieces of Alex Raymond, William Alland and Bert Gordan.  The bed (so conveniently full sized) is covered with the quilt that his father’s mother had lovingly stitched together upon the birth of her only grandson.  And the centuries old wooden floorboards still creak their protest at Tom’s heavy pacing.

It’s not just his room, Tom knows: his sisters’ rooms have been preserved with equal care in between their occupants’ far more frequent visits.  Julia Paris is well practiced in the art of waiting for her loved ones to find their way back home.

Stopping behind the leather upholstered desk chair, Tom looks down at the box, running a hand through his ever receding hairline.  Finally settling reluctantly down into the chair, Tom retrieves the box and opens it, revealing the single gold pip inside.

Such small things, those pips, for the amount of trouble they have caused him.

“Starfleet brass wanted to present this to you with full fanfare – with the holovid cameras rolling.  I thought you might prefer something quieter.” They had met at a quaint little café in the Mission District.  Kathryn’s order of hot tea with lemon had come as a surprise; the box she had handed to Tom once they were seated had not.

He had opened it, already knowing what it must contain.

“Your father would have been proud, Tom.” Then, a touch on his hand. “He would also have understood…all of it.”

He had looked up from the pip. “All of it?”

“All of it,” she had assured and grimaced as she took a sip of her beverage. “This is going to take some getting used to.”

The box’s contents had been inevitable since the moment that Commander Thomas Eugene Paris had piloted Starfleet’s favorite feel good story down through a shower of fireworks and the towers of the Golden Gate Bridge to land her gracefully on the manicured grounds of the Presidio.  It didn’t take a holonovelist - or a Starfleet PR director - to know how this story was supposed to end.  

Earlier that morning, B’Elanna and Miral had decided to take advantage of a rare open weekend to check out the rock climbing at nearby Eagle Peak.  After parting ways with his former captain, rather than heading back to the sterile silence of their Starfleet arranged temporary quarters, Tom had hopped on the transport across the Bay to his mother’s home.

Placing the still open box back down, Tom looks to the right corner of the desk where the other addition to the room sits: a triptych of holoimages, one each of his two sisters and their families and, the third, an image of Tom, B’Elanna and an infant Miral.  Tom pulls the pictures into the light and his eyes focus on his newborn daughter. With a small smile, he allows his memories to drift back across the space of a couple of decades and a few tens of thousands of light years.  
.

.

.

It is somewhat disconcerting to look down and see his own eyes staring widely back up at him.

Their color might well change over time, Tom knows, but at less than twenty-four hours old, looking into Miral’s eyes is very much like looking into a mirror – except the reflection has none of the baggage of regret that his own has taken on through the years.  Disconcerting or no, Tom is finding himself happy enough to gaze down into those eyes for as long as they will stay open.  Which, a long infant yawn suggests, will not be much longer.

Miral Paris had made her appearance in the wee hours of that morning, giving her parents just enough warning to get themselves to Sickbay before her precipitous arrival.  The Doc had fussed and cooed over his new goddaughter but had been uncharacteristically supportive of Tom and B’Elanna’s desire to return to their own quarters as soon as possible: Sickbay hardly provided for private family suites. Miral had entered the quarters squawking with enough volume to prove that she had three healthy lungs but quickly settled back down to a more serene state as soon as her stomachs were again full. Once Tom had gotten B’Elanna comfortably settled on the sofa with a glass of Gamzian wine in hand and Cary Grant in _Notorious_ on the television, he had taken Miral to the bedroom for a quick diaper change.  Arriving back in the living room minutes later, he found B’Elanna fast asleep, the wine glass precariously balanced in her now loosely curled fingers.

Rescuing the glass and carefully covering his wife with a handy throw, Tom had then looked down at the wide awake newborn nestled in his arm and decided that it was an excellent time to give Miral her first tour of _Voyager_.

He had lost all track of time during the whirlwind of the day and was thus somewhat puzzled by the deserted state of the ship’s corridors.  A query of the computer confirmed that it was well into ship’s night; at the same moment, Tom’s stomach had reminded him of the meals that he had neglected over the last eighteen hours.  After a quick consultation with his still sharply alert daughter, Tom had headed for the mess hall.

  
It was still something of a surprise to see Chell’s shiny visage popping up and down behind the galley partition as he worked on the cleanup from the evening rush, humming what Tom vaguely recognized as a Bolian pop tune as he did so. At an unexpected stab of sadness from the thought that the more familiar occupant of the galley would likely never meet the tiny person in his arms, Tom had quickly cleared his throat, causing the blue head to swivel in their direction.  

Chell’s hands clapped together before, pulling off his apron and bubbling with delight, he lumbered out to join Tom in the main mess hall.

“May I?” The question was eager but respectful as, with uncharacteristic tenderness, the Bolian held out one blue hand toward the infant.  At Tom’s nod, Chell gently placed two fingers against Miral’s tiny throat and murmured a few words in what Tom assumed to be his native language before adding, “Welcome, little one.”

Miral gave a small indeterminate gurgle while gazing with fascination at the blue ridges on Chell’s forehead. “I think she likes you,” Tom translated.

“To be sure, to be sure,” Chell agreed, giving the infant a broad grin before moving back to the galley and beginning to pull together various ingredients. “I have seventeen nieces and nephews back in the Alpha Quadrant from my siblings and their spouses and co-spouses. My child watching skills are at your disposal whenever you have need.  But first,” finishing his preparations, he had handed a plate across the partition to Tom, “sustenance for the father.” At Tom’s grin of appreciation, Chell nodded at the sandwich: “That should be easy enough to eat with one hand.”

Settling into a table facing the viewport, Tom had found himself quickly appreciative of Chell's foresight. Miral remained content in the crook of his arm, but there was nowhere to move her from there. And so Tom consumed the first of no doubt many one handed meals, enjoying his daughter’s gradually more heavy-lidded stare and the peace of the star trails on the other side of the viewport.

"Lieutenant Paris." Miral's eyes are just closing when the strident tone jolts them back open -- but only for a second before some instinctive shushing and arm bouncing has them drifting shut again. Grinning broadly at his success, Tom turns to his addressor.

And enjoys the rare sight of Seven of Nine looking thoroughly discomposed. "I apologize, Lieutenant. Had I realized..."

Tom quickly waves off her concern, though he pitches his voice a little lower than usual. "Nothing to worry about, Seven." And he smiles down to the sleeping infant. "Hey, Miral – say hello to Auntie Seven.”

Seven quirks an eyebrow. “Auntie?”

“It’s a human term…”

“I am familiar with the term,” Seven cuts him off. “However, I have no familial relationship with either you or Lieutenant Torres.”

Tom chuckles – softly. “It can also be used as an honorific, Seven.”

“Indeed?” She takes a moment to process that. “Then I am duly honored.”

Smiling effusively at all that is currently right in the Universe - or at least his small part of it - Tom offers, “Would you like to hold her?”

It is a testament to her growth over the last three years that Seven attempts, not entirely successfully, to hide her distaste. “Is holding the infant a required function of an ‘auntie’?”

“No, not at all," Tom assures, making an equally valiant and hopefully more successful effort to smother his amusement.  

"Then I will decline," Seven replies with evident relief. After a pause, she adds, “But thank you.”

"Well," Tom shifts Miral's now very dead weight slightly in his arm, "if you change your mind, I’m sure B’Elanna and I will be thrilled to have an extra set of hands – literally.”

“I will keep that in mind.” And Seven turns her full attention down to the sleeping infant. “It has been my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miral Paris.” And with a nod to Tom, she continues on whatever errand had brought her through the mess hall.  
  
Tom’s gaze trails after Seven until Miral grunts with annoyance in her sleep, bringing his attention back to her as the still soft ridges of her forehead wrinkle in discomfort before she settles back into a deeper sleep.  
  
He should probably think about heading back to their quarters and trying to get some sleep for himself: likely that will be a rare commodity in the coming weeks. After another minute of enjoying his sheer contentment in the moment, Tom stands and stretches with one arm before bending his head and raising the other arm to give his daughter a soft kiss on her ridged brow. "Come on, little one. Time to go home."  
.

.

.

It has become one more in the library of nightmares from which his subconscious chooses when he’s finally able to – or too exhausted not to – fall asleep.  

 _Racing the_ Flyer _around subspace eddies, knowing that he is pushing the edge too far even as he knows that it isn’t far enough; shouting instructions through the comm to Ayala down on the lower deck; simultaneously messaging_ Voyager _to call for help and prepare the Doctor for his patient – and to tell Chakotay that he needs to get to sickbay._

_When they finally clear the perimeter and he initiates the transport, he looks down to find his hands trembling._

“Tom?”

Shaking his head to clear the memory, he looks across the ready room desk at the Captain. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I…”

She waves him off. “I think it’s fair to say that all of us are still not quite ourselves.”

Two decades of piloting ships through every hazard imaginable and unimaginable and his hands had always been steady.

“How’s Chakotay?”

Tom has tried several times to seek Chakotay out, wanting to give him a firsthand account of what had happened. He wants neither forgiveness nor absolution – but, if it had been B’Elanna (and his gut twists at the thought), he would have wanted to know all of it.

“He’s requested a leave of absence. Indefinitely.”

Her tone is flat, reflecting a both physical and emotional exhaustion that Tom knows only too well.

“What did you say?”

“I haven’t said anything yet.”

Tom nods. As much as he sympathizes with the man, it’s a bad time for _Voyager_ ’s first officer to be consumed by personal grief. A cyclical vortex that had originally seemed a rare gift from the Delta Quadrant – whisking them forward almost two thousand light years in a matter of hours – had turned out to be more of a curse, leaving the ship’s power reserves drained from the strain on the shields and tossing them out into the middle of a cluster of ionic storms. Three months later, _Voyager_ has yet to fully recover, and they are now sitting on the doorstep of Fen Domar territory. There are plenty of good reasons that Seven had been determined to recover the tellerium at any cost.

Picking up a small object from behind her computer terminal, the Captain slides it across her desk to Tom. “On that note, though, I apologize for the lack of ceremony, but this is overdue.” Leaning forward to look down at the desk, he sees the solid gold pip. “With the blessing of Starfleet Command.”

Tom looks up in question and the Captain nods. “Your service record and commission has been normalized: you are now officially full Lieutenant Thomas Eugene Paris according to the Starfleet books.” And she adds, “You can thank Tuvok when you have a chance. He’s the one who sorted through the regulatory red tape.”

Smiling slightly at the last, Tom picks up the pip, resting it in his palm, wondering if it is, in fact, thanks that he owes the tactical officer.

_“Tom, should I take the conn?”_

_She is bleeding out beneath his hands. But there is nothing that he can do to stop it. Nothing that anyone will be able to do until they get back to_ Voyager _. But between the_ Flyer _and_ Voyager _sits a thermobaric cloud – and there isn’t a chance in hell that Ayala can fly through it._

He swears he can feel the extra bit of weight as he exchanges one pip for the other and looks down at the hollow pip now in his hand.

“What about B’Elanna and Chakotay and the others?” It has been a decade since they’ve been ‘the former Maquis’ in Tom’s mind.

Weariness settles back into Janeway’s tone. “Starfleet is still deliberating their status.”

Tom looks back up. “Captain…”

She waves him off again. “Tom, I know. Believe me I know. Tuvok and I have been at this with Starfleet Command since we reestablished communications with the Alpha Quadrant.” Her fingers press against her temples. “I’m planning on offering B’Elanna a promotion anyway.” The last comes with a questioning look: the Captain might offer but it is up in the air whether B’Elanna will accept.

Full Lieutenant or no, Tom is still not stepping into the middle of the ever complex relationship between his Captain and his wife.

“Harry?” he asks instead.

At that, the Captain finally smiles. “You can send _Lieutenant_ Kim in when you leave.” And the smile reaches her eyes as she continues, “Speaking of which, I think you need to get yourself to a birthday dinner before you’re late.”

He and B’Elanna had considered cancelling or at least postponing the celebration, following only days on the heels of Seven’s memorial. In the end, though, they feared linking what should be a happy date with the death of her favorite ‘Auntie’ even more strongly in Miral’s three-year-old mind.

Tom is standing to depart when the Captain adds, “One last thing, Tom: I thought you would want to know.” She taps the monitor in front of her. “The Doctor sent over his report…on Seven.” Something unreadable passes over her features before she looks up to hold Tom’s eyes. “He made a point to commend your actions and decisions in the field. In his opinion, you gave Seven the best possible chance of survival.”

 _“Seven, I’m pulling you out. Prepare for transport.”_  
  
_:I need another minute to ensure the stability of the tellerium:_  
  
_“You don’t have it. Those caverns are about to collapse.”_  
  
_:Lieutenant…Tom: the acquisition of this resource is essential to_ Voyager _’s continued ability to function. You must let me complete this task:_  
  
_He can feel Ayala’s steady eyes on him. “One minute, Seven. Then we’re beaming you out, with or without the tellerium.”_  
  
_:Understood. Stand by:_  
  
_His mental count has reached fifty when the comm crackles back to life._  
  
_:Lieutenant, I have…:_  
  
_His hand has almost reached the transporter control when the comm erupts into static -- and then cuts to silence._  
  
Swallowing hard, Tom finds himself at a loss for a response. The Captain seems to accept that and waves him away, passing her birthday wishes onto Miral. Tom heads for the door, pausing for a moment to recompose his features before exiting onto the bridge.  
.

.

.  
“You were looking for me, Doc?”

 

“Yes, Mr. Paris – please close the door on your way in.”

 

Tom turns at the entrance and manually pulls the sickbay doors closed, stopping to admire the artwork around the entranceway as he does so.

 

“I see you’ve also been the beneficiary of Miral’s targ phase.”

 

The Doctor joins him at the doorway, beaming with pride. “Isn’t her representation of the musculature and skeletal structures striking? My goddaughter has a future in medicine, Mr. Paris, in spite of your attempts to sway her in…other directions.”

 

Despite both parental bias and his best efforts, Tom can only see an average eight-year-old’s somewhat distorted representation of her current favorite animal, but who is he to argue? Miral adores her godfather and the feeling is very much mutual. Over the last few years, the kinship between the two has been invaluable to Tom and B’Elanna as Miral has used the relative security of Sickbay as a refuge both when _Voyager_ has been in immediate danger and, more frequently, when both of her parents have been stuck dealing with an ever increasing load of shipboard duties and responsibilities; Tom long ago admitted to himself that he is envious of the time that the EMH is able to spend with Miral. But, should she choose to follow in the Doc’s footsteps, Tom will be more than happy to support her – as long as she doesn’t pick up some of the EMH’s more abrasive mannerisms along the way.

 

“So what can I help you with today, Doctor?”

 

It’s been a long time – too long – since Tom himself has spent regular time in Sickbay. When he took over responsibility for the duty roster five years before, Tom’s first order of business had been to put out a call for crewmembers interested in training as medics: Ayala had been his first volunteer. In the years since, over a dozen crew members had become qualified medical assistants serving regular shifts in Sickbay. And Tom’s time has been increasingly needed elsewhere.

 

He finds himself with no little amount of nostalgia for his days of dealing with cuts, scrapes and sniffles – and with the Doctor’s particular sense of humor.

 

The Doc, meanwhile, ushers him across to where Sickbay’s lone patient sits on a biobed in a darkened corner of the room, fingers steepled and eyes closed.

 

“Tuvok?”

 

The Vulcan’s eyes open at Tom’s surprised exclamation. “Lieutenant Commander Paris. Thank you for taking the time to assist the Doctor in this matter.”

 

“And what exactly is ‘this matter’?” Tom asks turning from the EMH to Tuvok and back again. The last half decade has further honed his sense for when the shit is about to hit the fan and, right now, every instinct is screaming at him to duck.  
  
In answer, the EMH gestures to the monitors on the wall beside the biobed where Tom sees the image of a humanoid brain. His medical knowledge may be somewhat rusty, but… “Tuvok, how long has this been going on?”  
  
“The first symptoms became apparent eight years ago; their progression has been slow but steady since that time.”

 

He should have ducked.

 

“Eight years? You’ve known about this for eight years and have failed to mention it?” Tom rounds on the EMH. “You’ve known about this?”

 

The Doctor’s expression is grim. “As long as it did not affect the Commander’s ability to fulfill his duties, I was bound by doctor-patient confidentiality.”

 

“‘As long as it did not affect…’” Tom pauses, giving that a moment to sink in. _The Borg sphere. The transphasic torpedos. The error in the computations._ He turns back to Tuvok, raising an eyebrow. “Not just a bad day then?”  
  
“You adjusted for my error. And then ‘failed to mention it.’” Tuvok’s tone is mildly ironic – in anyone else it would have been accusatory.

 

Tom shrugs, uncomfortable. “Everyone makes mistakes.” Except everyone did not: Tuvok did not, at least not when dealing with tactical calculations. Tom had known that – and had, at least subconsciously, processed the implications of the Vulcan’s error. And had not wanted to acknowledge them.

Had not wanted to acknowledge them because _Voyager_ is flying one parsec ahead of disaster and has been for years. The initial, deadly encounters with the Fen Domar had left the ship bruised and short staffed in yet more key positions, and the threat of ambush on any world with needed supplies or provisions in Domari space had forced _Voyager_ to run on a modified grey mode for months on end. The ablative armor that B’Elanna and Tuvok had developed for the _Flyer_ had eventually allowed the smaller vessel to begin to make quick runs into systems for the most needed supplies, but _Voyager_ ’s crew had become accustomed to long term power saving measures: Miral could hardly remember a time when the turbolifts and personal replicators actually operated or when doors opened themselves.  
  
Or, for that matter, when _Voyager_ had had a functional first officer.  
  
And then they had run into the Borg again.

“Does the Captain know?” Tom realizes the answer even as he asks: had Kathryn known, she would have told him. There would be no medical privilege involved.  
  
“She does not,” Tuvok confirms. “However, it is my intention to inform her once the results of this examination are known.”

Which brings Tom back around to why the Doctor – and Tuvok – have called him down here in the first place. “Right,” he acknowledges and then allows himself the luxury of slipping back into the role of a medical assistant. “What do you need me to do, Doc?”

“I’d like to run a full neurographic scan and need your assistance in monitoring any changes in the Commander’s neuropeptide levels as the scan progresses.” Nodding, Tom moves to the medical console and calls out the initial numbers.

When _Voyager_ had finally inched its way out of Domari space, there had been a brief hope of a return to normalcy – or at least what passed for normalcy in the Delta Quadrant. However, a month later while out on a reconnaissance mission, the _Flyer_ had run into a Borg scout ship. B’Elanna and Tuvok’s armor had proven just as effective against the Borg as it had been against the Fen Domar; unfortunately, the new technology had also attracted the attention of the Collective.  
  
“I’m beginning to scan the mesiofrontal cortex. Please pay particular attention to the neurotransmitter activity, Mr. Paris.”  
  
A class two nebula had offered temporary refuge and had contained a mineral and ore rich system of planets which allowed the crew to outfit _Voyager_ itself with ablative armor. In the weeks they spent in hiding, Harry and Tuvok had also been able to dust off and implement Seven’s designs for transphasic torpedoes. With both defensive and offensive upgrades in place and the ship’s holds and the long empty decks four and five full of additional raw supplies, they had prepared to make a run for it.  
  
What they are running toward is still anyone’s guess.

“Mr. Paris, thank you for your assistance. We are done here.” Tom gives the EMH a nod and shuts down his station.  
  
“Commander?” Tom turns back to Tuvok who is once again sitting upright on the biobed. “I intend to recommend to the Captain that I should be removed as chief of security in favor of Lieutenant Kim.”  
  
Tom nods again, finding that he doesn’t have the energy for any further reply.  
  
“I will, of course, also inform Commander Chakotay of my status.”  
  
For whatever good that will do.  
  
“I am aware of the additional strains that my condition will place on the Captain and Lieutenants Kim and Torres, as well as yourself.” After the briefest, uncharacteristic pause, Tuvok continues, “I regret the inconvenience.”  
  
Tom feels muscles in his jaw and chest that he would have sworn couldn’t constrict further tighten. Conscious that the gesture is more for his own reassurance than for the Vulcan’s, he reaches out to grasp the other man’s shoulder.  
  
“We’ll hold together, Tuvok. We always do.”  
.

.

.

“Computer, lights.”  
  
Tom shudders before the computer can even comply with B’Elanna’s request as she enters their darkened quarters, and he throws an arm across his closed eyes – which movement only exacerbates his nausea. He groans and concentrates hard on not losing what is left of the contents of his stomach.  
  
“Tom?” The best that he can give in response is another feeble groan. “Computer, dim lights.”  
  
A second later he feels B’Elanna’s cool hand on his temple. “Torres to Sic…”  
  
Tom moves his hand to grab her wrist, stopping her. He shakes his head and gestures vaguely in the direction of the still full hypospray lying on the coffee table in front of the sofa.  
  
“How much?” B’Elanna asks, accepting his preference.  
  
“Set it at three percent,” he manages to whisper and then counts the seconds before the hypospray of hydrocortaline hisses its promised relief.  
  
B’Elanna’s fingers stroke through his hair as she also waits for the meds to do their work. Slowly but surely the nausea recedes as the piercing pain in his skull dulls to a quiet throb.  
  
He opens his eyes to see his wife kneeling beside the sofa, observing him steadily. “Thank you.”  
  
B’Elanna shrugs, but her fingers continue their work. “Thank modern medicine.” Then she cocks her head to the side, further assessing his condition. “Are you sure you don’t want to head down to Sickbay?”

Tom shakes his head - carefully - and attempts to raise himself to sitting on the sofa; B’Elanna deftly shoves an extra pillow behind him. “It’s just a headache – it came on too fast and I didn’t have the chance to set the hypospray. Besides, I was just in Sickbay; I can only take so much of the Doc in one afternoon.” He grins weakly at his own joke, trying to ease some of the worry that still clouds B’Elanna’s expression.  
  
She’s not so easily deflected. “In Sickbay? Helping the Doctor out with his pet project?”  
  
“He’s making some good progress, B’Elanna: he could have a working prototype before the end of the year.”  
  
B’Elanna laughs. “I’m sure the Daystrom Institute will be thrilled to hear it.” She eyes her husband. “But even if I concede that his work has potential, there are a dozen other qualified pilots on this ship: you’ve made sure of that. Why do you need to be his guinea pig?”  
  
“I’m the only pilot with experience using a neural interface with a synaptic transceiver.”  
  
“Not good experience.”  
  
This is true.  
  
“B’Elanna…” but she pulls up to kiss his forehead, letting what is essentially an old argument go for the moment.  
  
“Where’s Miral?”  
  
“She and Naomi have their correspondence courses this afternoon in Astrometrics and then she is staying over with Naomi and Sam.”  
  
B’Elanna stands and, one hand on her hip, gives him another assessing look. “How’s your head feeling now?”  
  
Tom considers the question before answering: “Better.”  
  
“Good. Then come with me, Commander.” And she offers the other hand to pull him up off the sofa.  
  
Tom smiles gamely at her rare and always intriguing use of his rank as he lets her pull him up. “And where are we headed, Chief?”  
  
She’s already walking out the door. “You’ll see.”  
.  
  
Wherever he had been expecting his wife to lead him, the monochromatic bridge of Captain Proton’s rocket ship had not been it.  
  
“Are we battling the forces of evil this afternoon?” he asks, pacing slowly around the once familiar environs, running a hand over the telegram machine and the destructo beam panel. Reaching the bridge’s center, he reaches up and pulls the periscope down for a brief look out at one of the many interchangeable worlds of Proton’s low budget universe.  
  
B’Elanna snorts. “Not ‘we’. I don’t play these games – you know that.”  
  
Tom finishes his circuit and his eyes settle on where B’Elanna is standing at the top of the imagizer’s dais; he’d almost forgotten how exceptionally well black and white suits her.  
  
“It’s been a long time since I’ve played them either,” he reminds her.  
  
“I know. That’s why we’re here.”  
  
Tom feels, suddenly, very old. He tries again: “B’Elanna, I think I may be past the days when I get to play at being a hero.”  
  
In the decade and a half that they’ve been together, he’s learned to read most of her mannerisms, to pick out the subtleties of mood and thought that seem to be lost on much of the rest of the world. But right now her expression is indecipherable even to him.  
  
“Tom, go check the activity log for this program over the last six months.”  
  
He moves to the access port hidden behind the bulkhead panels near the rocket ship’s hatch. “If your point is to tell me that I need to take more downtime, I think you’ve already…” He stops as the activity log appears and begins scrolling down the screen. And continues scrolling.  
  
Tom turns to B’Elanna, letting his expression ask the question for him. “Grimes called for maintenance on the bi-converter interface. I had a spare minute before going off duty, so I came down myself – and saw what program he was running. ‘They’ actually – Hickman and Weiss were here as well. I was curious so I checked the logs.” She sits down on the top step, watching for his reaction. “The other episodes have been equally popular since the holodecks have been back online.” She pauses for a moment, looking down and biting at her lower lip before glancing back up and adding, “Look at the user account for the most recent activity, Tom.”  
  
He scrolls to the top of the list and stops dead. Something twists in his chest.  
  
“Miral,” he reads aloud.  
  
He turns back to B’Elanna who motions to the stair beside her. Tom crosses the bridge and slumps down on the stair, head in his hands. “B’Elanna, please tell me that I haven’t turned into my father.”  
  
“Hey,” she says, reaching over to cup his chin in her palm and turn his face and eyes toward her. “Thomas Eugene Paris, you have not turned into your father.”  
  
Tom takes her hand into his own, working hard to accept her reassurance. His eyes sweep back around the rocket ship’s bridge, seeing it now with new eyes: Miral’s eyes. “You have no idea how often I dreamt about bringing her down here – before she was born even. Hell, before we even knew that you were pregnant.” He looks back at B’Elanna. “What happened to me?”  
  
“You became the _de facto_ first officer of a shorthanded starship, stranded on the wrong side of the Galaxy and running for its life,” B’Elanna summarizes bluntly. “And which, by the way, hasn’t had functional holodecks for the majority of your daughter’s life until this last year.”    
  
They sit in silence for a minute, the coolant system bubbling intermittently in the background.  
  
“So why did you bring me down here then?” He knows she has set it all there in front of him but his mind refuses to make the connections on its own.  
  
“Because we’re no longer running for our lives.”  
  
They had a spatial flexure to thank for that: the last madcap gamble of a desperate crew. With armor failing and a Borg cube on their tail, the unstable and collapsing tunnel had whisked them across a few thousand light years – and deposited them barely a year out from System J25 and known space. Regular communications with Starfleet had been reestablished and long ignored ship functions had been repaired and reinitiated. Eleven months later they are, unbelievably, within three years of home.  
  
“Tom?” B’Elanna recalls his wandering thoughts. “It’s time to breathe again.”  
  
What comes out instead is something more like a ragged sob. “I’m not sure I remember how,” he admits.  
  
“Well,” she offers, her tone measured, “Miral’s birthday is about a month away: I bet she would love a new holo-adventure to play.” And she nods over at the access terminal where the activity log is still showing. “And I bet the rest of the crew wouldn’t mind either.” Then she raises an eyebrow. “You might have to let someone else act as the Doctor’s guinea pig for you in the meantime though.”

Tom chuckles, squeezing her hand. “I should have known you weren’t going to just let that drop.” Then he stands and moves down to the flight console and affectionately runs his fingers over the buttons and levers. “I think I still have some notes I made for the next episode buried on a PADD somewhere. I wonder…”  
  
A hand low – very low – on his back and a warm breath on his neck interrupts the thought. “Actually, I had another idea on a place to start first.” B’Elanna’s voice is a purr in his ear. “You look good in black and white, Commander. Though,” and she deftly moves around sliding herself between Tom and the console, stroking his uniformed chest, “I do miss the leather jacket.”  
  
“I think I may still have that buried somewhere as well,” Tom assures before leaning in to make the very best kind of start at relearning how to breathe.  
  
.

.

.

“One last drink for old time’s sake, Commander? It seems rather appropriate – symmetrical even.” Tom walks up behind the younger man, slapping a hand on his shoulder, so recently transformed from gold to red.  
  
Harry grins but shakes his head as they continue down the long, curved corridor of the starbase’s outer ring. “Somehow I think showing up intoxicated to one’s installment as first officer of a starship is frowned upon.”  
  
Starfleet brass had arranged for Harry’s debriefings to take place as soon as _Voyager_ reached Federation space in the form of Starbase 185, allowing the newly minted Commander Kim to then take his posting as first officer of the _Rhode Island_ , already docked at the station. The assignment would delay Harry’s reunion with his parents for an extra month, but the _Rhode Island_ ’s captain had made clear her intention to retire within the next five years, making the opportunity hard to pass up for the erstwhile ‘longest serving ensign in Starfleet history’.  
  
Tom purses his lips. “Probably,” he agrees. “How about splitting a pizza then? You still have an hour or so before you’re expected on board. My treat.”  
  
“How generous of you,” Harry quips. But he gamely follows Tom towards the turbolift that will whisk them down to Level 8 and the observation lounge.  
  
“You know, it’s going to take a while to get used to this whole ‘eat whatever you want, whenever you want and as much of it as you want’ thing again.” Tom pats his midsection which is likely to suffer the consequences of the new possibilities, at least temporarily. He turns as the turbolift doors open. “And that may not be the only thing that needs some getting used to.”  
  
Hitting it as they are at the midday rush, the lounge is humming with activity as staffers rush in for a quick bite of food while station visitors linger more leisurely over tall glasses of colorful syntheholic beverages and games of Durotta and three dimensional chess. Tables dot the expansive room from the well-stocked bar on the interior wall up to the outer hull’s floor to ceiling viewports showcasing the Zeta Gelis star cluster. Tom quickly estimates that the tally of the current occupants of the lounge easily exceeds _Voyager_ ’s surviving crew complement.  
  
Tom and Harry weave their way through the crowd to a table that is just opening up in a relatively quiet corner next to the viewports.  
  
“It’s a bit of a culture shock,” Harry admits. “One doesn’t expect home to feel quite so…alien.” An ever efficient Starfleet waiter appears to take their order before just as efficiently blending back into the crowd. “How’s Miral holding up with all of it?”  
  
Tom waves in the general direction of the interior of the station. “She’s off exploring.”  
  
“By herself?”  
  
Tom chuckles. “That’s what I said; B’Elanna pointed out that she’s probably safer here than she’s ever been before in her life.”  
  
Harry snorts in rueful agreement. “And B’Elanna is stuck in engineering dealing with Medling?”  
  
Tom nods, his mood clouding. “Unfortunately, yes.”  
  
“Is he still trying to suborn the engineering staff?”  
  
“Not while she’s there – which is why she’s barely left engineering in the last three days.” It had taken all of six hours in Federation space before B’Elanna’s rank had been called into question. Special Inspector Medling had come aboard _Voyager_ to conduct an initial health and safety inspection and had immediately begun countermanding B’Elanna’s standing orders with her staff. When Vorik had logically and rightly pointed out that Lieutenant Commander Torres outranked Medling, the inspector’s officious response had been that he understood the chief engineer’s rank to be ‘only provisional’.  
  
B’Elanna had resisted Kathryn’s repeated attempts to promote her to full lieutenant and then, skipping the niceties, to lieutenant commander for the years that _Voyager_ clawed its way through the Delta Quadrant. As long as Starfleet brass was unwilling to budge on the ‘Maquis question’, she certainly was not going to further validate the two tier rank system by accepting a promotion. It was only when the spatial flexure had spit the ship out within striking distance of home and she had discovered that several members of her staff - Vorik included - were themselves passing up promotions in order to remain subordinate to her that she had grudgingly put on the commander stripes.  
  
Less than a day back home and all of her cynicism had been justified in spades.  
  
The pizza – heavy on the pepperoni – and their first-officer-installment-friendly drinks arrive; despite his soured mood, Tom grins as he catches the scent of oregano, basil and garlic, his senses fully appreciating the advances in replicator technology made over the last twenty years. “This is how pizza should smell.” He reaches for a piece and watches in satisfaction as thin strings of cheese form and stretch between the piece and the main dish. “And how it should act.”  
  
Harry also serves himself as well but his mind is clearly still on their previous topic. “B’Elanna’s not going to stay in Starfleet, is she?”  
  
“No, she’s not.” Tom’s considered if there was a point when she might have – when she might have been willing to deal with whatever hoops Starfleet decided to throw at her in order to continue to work on her beloved starship engines. But if there had ever been such a time, it is long past.  
  
Harry takes a bite of his pizza slice and chews for a moment before asking, “And what about you?”  
  
Tom toys with his fork, twirling a long string of cheese around its tines. It’s the question he’s been delaying asking himself – and which, he finds, he’s still not ready to answer. “I need to get one ship into harbor first, Harry. Then I can decide where to go next.”  
  
And it’s true: as much as he has slowly remembered how to live more normally - Miral did indeed get her new holoprogram and then a couple of sequels, and the new pip on Harry’s collar is a direct result of the other man’s work with the Doctor to complete the navigational neural transceiver project; Tom and B’Elanna have even found a couple of occasions for shore leave together - the instinct that he needs to be doing…something to get _Voyager_ home is always only very temporarily suppressed. He wonders sometimes how Kathryn hadn’t gone mad from the compulsion years before.  
  
Until _Voyager_ is back home, Tom has finally admitted to himself, he is fundamentally incapable of looking beyond that single goal.  
  
Harry nods his sympathy, but, not for the first time, Tom doubts how much the younger man truly understands – how much Harry can possibly understand when he is heading back out in the wrong direction with _Voyager_ still eighty light years from Earth.  
  
Lifting his glass, Harry tips it in Tom’s direction: “To what remains of the journey then.”  
  
Tom lifts his own glass in response.  
  
The remainder of their meal is spent in companionable reminiscing, stretching back to the day Tom had rescued an unsuspecting Harry from the clutches of DS9’s Ferengi bartender. When Harry’s hour is up, Tom walks with his friend back to the outer docking ring and the two men embrace before Harry heads through the airlock to report to the _Rhode Island_. Tom continues slowly on alone around the ring to where _Voyager_ awaits.  
  
“Dad – wait up…”  
  
Turning to see Miral exiting a turbolift down the corridor and breaking into a brisk jog to catch up with him, Tom stops in his tracks.  
  
“Did Uncle Harry leave?” she asks as she reaches his side. The sprint hasn’t left her breathless in the slightest; at sixteen, Miral has all of her father’s lankiness and her mother’s athleticism.  
  
Tom nods as they turn to continue together. “Just now. You got a chance to say goodbye, didn’t you?”  
  
“Mmmhmm.” And Miral glances over at him, doing a poor job of masking her concern. “Are you doing okay?”  
  
“Better now,” Tom assures her, reaching an arm out to pull her in close to him and then kissing the top of her head. “Much better now. Let’s go home.”  
.

.

.  
By the time he rouses himself from the memories, the last of the afternoon sun has slipped away leaving Tom sitting in shadows. The frame with the holoimages has fallen to his lap and he carefully lifts and replaces it in its place of honor on the desk, reminding himself to thank his mother: it’s a good addition to the room.  
  
Then, he looks back at the box – its contents now barely visible in the evening darkness. Reaching out, Tom plucks out the pip and toys with it between his fingers, glancing between the holoimages and the gold circle. He breaths in deeply and then exhales, smiling softly.  
  
“Maybe in another lifetime.”  
  
Slipping the pip back into the box, he closes the lid and pushes it toward the back corner of the desk. Then, pulling forward the two decades old personal console, he opens it and keys it on, wondering if it will still prove functional. After a moment of hesitation, it flickers to life.  
  
Opening up a blank page, Tom begins to write.


End file.
